


Red in Tooth and Claw

by bluestar



Category: Destiny (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3107117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestar/pseuds/bluestar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the wreckage, progression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

                  “No, Cayde.”

                  “Scared I’ll judge?”

                  Ikora refused to look up from the map she was poring over, though Cayde-6 could see one corner of her mouth quirking almost involuntarily upwards. He leaned forward, pitching his voice in a low whisper.

                  “You can tell me. I’ll take it to the grave.”

                  “And as soon as you rise up out of it again you’ll be blabbing it to anyone willing to stand still long enough.”

                  “I’m a man of honor, Warlock. Your lack of trust _wounds_ me.”

                  “I am not playing the ‘ _who would you date’_ game,” Ikora said. “Go ask Zavala.”

                  Cayde glanced towards the sweeping bay windows that looked out into the City’s borders; Commander Zavala was standing listening to a report from a Guardian fresh off the field, with a queue of three more waiting behind her. He shook his head.

                  “He doesn’t strike me as the dating type.”

                  “And I do?”

                  “Not really,” Cayde admitted. “But I’ve been plenty wrong before. So do I get even a hint? A possibility?”

                  “Are you really that bored?”

                  “I’m _always_ bored.”

                  Ikora sighed, finally looking up from the map; her Ghost hovered at her shoulder and fixed an inexpressive but still piercing look on Cayde. He stared right back, letting himself go cross-eyed. The Ghost buzzed and looked away in disapproval.

                  “Cayde.”

                  “What?”

                  “I know you’re worried. They’re going to come back.”

                  Cayde’s shoulders slumped and he looked back at the stack of datapads and papers he’d been hovering over all day, glancing through for minutes at a time before setting them down and trying not to acknowledge them. He had never had this kind of anxiety about strike operations when he had been in the field himself; he trusted himself, knew what he was about and how he would work to complete the mission. Sending in Hunters on his orders, directly or through bounties…that was something he still wasn’t comfortable with. He doubted he ever _would_ be.

                  “Sometimes they don’t,” he said simply. “Sorry, Warlock. I’ll pipe down. Just edgy, that’s all.”

                  They went back to their work in silence for a little while, Ikora studying her maps and Cayde skimming through his field reports. His own Ghost drifted from one end of the table to the other in unconscious sympathy to the prickling, nervous energy Cayde was valiantly trying to ignore; Ikora’s Ghost watched it, only the subtle body language in the twists and turns of its chassis indicating its growing annoyance.

                  “Tess.”

                  Cayde blinked, frowning up at Ikora.

                  “Sorry?”

                  She was still fixedly looking at her map, hands tracing the borders between Old Russia and the lost wilds. Somewhere out there pockets of humanity eked out lives isolated from the City; they came in, sometimes, half-feral and jumping at every shadow, driven on from their homes with the promise of safety in the Golden Age’s last bastion.

                  “If I wanted to date someone,” Ikora said. “Tess.”

                  “ _Really?_ I didn’t think-”

                  “You never asked before. Your turn.”

                  “What? No, no. I was just trying to pry into _your_ business.”

                  “And now you have,” Ikora said smoothly. “Your turn, Hunter.”

                  Cayde made a thoughtful sound, tapping a finger against his mouth.

                  “Hmm. Now that takes some real consideration.”

                  “Lakshmi-2?”

                  “Oh, no. She’s terrifying.”

                  Ikora snorted before she could stop herself and Cayde shrugged.

                  “Seriously. Have you really sat and _listened_ to her war stories? She’s…it’s a little disturbing sometimes.”

                  “Pot calling the kettle black. I’ve heard your ‘machine gun to the face’ story with the Cabal legionary at least ten times.”

                  “Yeah…yeah. Well.”

                  “Alright, so not Lakshmi,” Ikora said. “Banshee-44?”

                  “Nope. He’s terrifying too.”

                  “You’re awfully quick to admit how scared you are of everybody.”

                  “It’s part of my elaborate cover,” Cayde said, waving a dismissive hand. “Artful misdirection.”

                  Ikora’s Ghost made a small but heavily disapproving sound; Cayde’s chittered in response and it looked away, busying itself with the map with a chastised buzz.

                  “Kids, kids. No fighting.”

                  Satisfied it had defended its Guardian’s honor and pride, the Ghost took up its drifting path again and Ikora watched it with a subtle frown.

                  “Maybe you should take a break.”

                  “Nah. I’m good,” Cayde said, sifting through the report pile and picking one up at random. “Gotta go through all this. Speaker’s been waiting on scout mission summaries for a while now…don’t wanna push it any further.”

                  He looked down again pointedly, and Ikora let the subject drop.

 

\--

 

                  Three days later, Cayde’s strike team came home. They were battered, bloodied and bruised, but all of them alive. It was against the unspoken decorum of a Vanguard to run out to greet Guardians, even those said Vanguard had been quietly worried sick about for the better part of a week; Cayde showed remarkable restraint in his relief and happiness to see them again, dispersing payment and rewards for service. In return they gave him the best news he’d had in months.

                  “They got ‘im,” he said, slamming a fist down on the table in a burst of the enthusiasm he’d been stifling since the strike team had gotten back. Zavala glanced up at him with a look of mild interest, which Cayde knew from long experience meant he had the Commander’s undivided attention. “Drilled the son of a bitch right between the eyes.”

                  “An Archon Priest,” Zavala said. “That’s one hell of an accomplishment.”

                  “House of Wolves is doubly screwed now,” Cayde said, laughing. “Most of ‘em indentured to the Queen, the rest scattered to the wind. Let’s see ‘em bounce back from _this.”_

“Hierarchy will spit out another noble looking to ascend to the position,” Ikora said. Cayde shrugged, not letting the inconvenience of cold hard truth damper his good mood for a moment. “And besides that…there are constant rumors of rebellion in the Queen’s ranks. They’re chafing under her control.”

                  “She overstepped thinking she could bring them to heel,” Zavala added. He scowled in quiet disapproval. “They like to think the Reef is far-removed from all the troubles planetside…but then they invite some of the worst of it to sit at their feet.”

                  “Could we focus on the major victory we just had, please?” Cayde asked incredulously. “Yes, the Queen has a nest of vipers in her house. Not our problem right this very second. Can we talk about the Hunter who literally _walked up_ to a giant Archon-freaking-Priest and put a Solar bullet in his head?”

                  “We’re all pleased with the results of the strike, Cayde,” Zavala said. “But it was one target out of many. We’ve acknowledged it. Now we have to focus on what’s going to crop up to fill the vacuum Aksor leaves.”

                  Cayde worked his jaw as though gritting teeth, hinges squeaking in faint protest.

                  “I think I’m going to take a working lunch,” he said abruptly, grabbing a random stack of datapads and turning on his heel. Ikora and Zavala traded surprised looks, and Cayde was gone before they could even call out.

                  He stalked through the plaza feeling more and more like an idiot with every step. He was a Vanguard. He was supposed to be professional, methodical, detached at all times. His peers accomplished that with disheartening ease; Ikora was a Warlock, the whole cool and wise demeanor came naturally anyway. And Zavala…the guy was a literal walking tank. Severe and about as subtle as a wrecking ball to the face, sure, but always professional.

                  “Working lunch,” he muttered to himself, heading up the stairs towards the hangars. “Working _lunch?_ Of all the stupid…”

                  He sighed; there was no actual intake of air or exhalation, but he’d learned to mimic the sound ages ago. His chest habitually rose and fell as though he really was breathing, and a good, long sigh from boredom or frustration always managed to make him feel at least a little bit better.

                  “You don’t sigh unless you’re really upset about something.”

                  “Oh, _now_ you show up,” Cayde said sullenly. His Ghost hovered around his head like a flitting moth, trying to catch his eye. Cayde looked down at the floor. “Couldn’t pop into the conversation with a quick ‘ _shut up before you make an ass out of yourself’,_ huh?”

                  “I’m not your keeper,” the Ghost said dryly. “And when it comes to keeping your foot out of your mouth you’d need divine intervention rather than mine.”

                  “That’s just cold.”

                  “Maybe.”

                  Cayde heaved another, much deeper sigh, knocking his knuckles against his forehead in frustration.

                  “The longer I’m cloistered up in this tower the more I feel like I’m about to burst,” he said. “I don’t know how the others can take it.”

                  “They channel their energy into their roles as leaders,” the Ghost said. It drifted beside Cayde as he wandered through the corridor, aimlessly picking another stairwell and climbing. Aside from the occasional mechanic or Guardian the hangar seemed oddly empty; Cayde took little notice of it, still fixedly staring at the floor.

                  “I try to do that,” he muttered. “Honest. It just doesn’t come to me as natural as it does them.”            

                  “You doubt your own abilities?”               

                  “I _know_ my abilities. They just involve more shooting and explosions.”

                  “You’re being juvenile.”

                  Cayde glared at the Ghost, jaw working again. The Ghost stared at him –it seemed as though it was staring right _through_ him, actually – and his indignation shriveled.

                  “I suppose I am,” he said eventually. “I feel caged. I don’t know how Andal could stand it for as long as he did.”

                  “He accepted his change of function.”

                  “He was human, not a Frame,” Cayde snapped. “He didn’t switch over his programming. He didn’t reboot as a Vanguard.”

                  “Neither did you. You are his successor.”

                  “Meaning what?”

                  The Ghost considered for a moment, buzzing faintly.

                  “You are the heir to the title. He always intended it for you. And you always knew you would be the one to take it on. An heir apparent to a duty you take pride in, even though you claim it is chaining you down.”

                  “I’m proud of the people I direct,” Cayde said. “They’re the ones out there risking their necks while I sit here sending them out.”

                  “You care about them.”

                  “Of course I do.”

                  “Andal cared about them too,” the Ghost said. “You direct them with as much care as he did.”

                  “Careful planning doesn’t mean much when there’s a phalanx of Cabal or Vex swarming over you. They still die. I’ve lost a lot of people over the years. It’s my fault when it happens.”

                  “Guardians know what their purpose is,” the Ghost said reasonably. “And your Hunters know you would be in the trenches with them if you had the choice. That’s why they go, Vanguard. They know it has to be done. And they have someone they trust showing them the way.”

                  Cayde said nothing, though his gaze finally lifted from the floor. The Ghost was still staring at him, but the vivid blue eye seemed less piercing now.

                  “I should probably head back, shouldn’t I,” he said. “Apologize for making a scene.”

                  “You don’t have scenes. This was a minor tantrum.”

                  “I prefer _scene._ Makes me feel less…”

                  “Immature?”

                  Cayde gave it a wry look.

                  “Don’t undo all the sagely advice by making me too self-aware, alright? _Apparently_ I have important duties I have to get back into, don’t want my confidence shaken.”

                  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Vanguard.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

                  The next day dawned rainy and cold. The tower plaza was mostly empty of people aside from Guardians hurrying back and forth on business made more urgent by the need to duck out of the rain; for a war-hardened bunch that could drop feet-first into hell on Mars and Venus, Cayde-6 had never seen people act more like cats with their tails on fire trying to get away from a little poor weather. They all seemed to be congregating into the hangars, shouldering past each other to get in.

                  “Have you noticed the big crowd milling about this morning?” he asked Ikora. She went on reading as though she hadn’t heard him – not an unusual occurrence. He put an effort into mimicking a loud clearing of the throat and she blinked up at him.

                  “Have you noticed,” he repeated with exaggerated slowness, “The big crowd milling about this morning.”

                  “Don’t get snippy, I didn’t hear you,” Ikora said mildly. She marked the page in her book and looked out towards the entrance of the Guardian’s Hall. “Seems like the normal amount of traffic to me. No major raid missions recently…”

                  “Something stirring we don’t know about?”

                  “Doubtful. I think everyone’s just gathering somewhere else.”

                  “Not for a Crucible thing, you think? Iron Banner?”

                  Ikora shook her head.

                  “Not that I know of.”

                  “Odd,” Cayde murmured, looking down at his usual stack of maps and datapads, the stark blue light of his eyes dimming in a resentful squint.

                  “Actually…what day is it?”

                  “The eighth.”

                  “The actual day, Cayde,” Ikora said patiently. “We might have a _visitor._ ”

                  “Visi…oh. Oh, good golly shit. The creature from the Black Lagoon again. Is it that time already? I thought the stars were supposed to turn black and shake from the sky when he came around.”

                  “Cayde!” Ikora’s tone was genuinely scolding. He glanced up at her and couldn’t help but draw back a bit at the hard frown she had fixed on him.

                  “What? Xûr is…” he trailed off, waving a hand aimlessly. “He’s…he is. If he _is_ a he, and if he actually _is_. Jovians…they operate on a level I don’t think we’re meant to understand. He’s _creepy_.”

                  “All the more reason not to be rude about him behind his back,” Ikora said. Cayde looked away, chastised; Ikora had a way of trimming a person to size with a few well-chosen words when she felt they were getting out of line. Cayde got along with her very well, even to a point where they could be called friends beyond colleagues – but he could still push the wrong buttons without meaning to.

                  “I find him _disturbing_ ,” Cayde amended. “Don’t look me in the eye and say you don’t think he’s unsettling too.”

                  “I find him different from us, and someone worth getting to know and understanding,” Ikora said. Cayde grunted noncommittally. “Oh, give me _one_ good reason why you don’t like him.”

                  “The wiggly face-tentacles for a start. And the constant cryptic muttering. Have you really hung back and listened to him when no one else is around?”

                  “Master Rahool mutters too. A lot less coherently at times.”

                  “Master Rahool is a species we recognize,” Cayde retorted. “And we know where he gets his engrams from. Xûr just… _shows up._ With _stuff._ Stuff he trades for motes of Light, which, by the way? Never been comfortable with.”

                  “You’re nitpicking,” Ikora said.

                  “I am _not_ nitpicking. This is a _concern._ ”

                  “Why? It’s not as though he’s eating them. It’s a currency, Cayde. You don’t get upset with the Speaker for asking for Light motes.”

                  “Xûr’s come out and said he was sent here to study Light,” Cayde said. “What better way to gather specimens than asking for it in exchange for a nice shiny new gun?”

                  “This goes beyond nitpicking. Let it go. He poses no threat to anyone.”

                  “ _Yet_ ,” Cayde muttered.

                  “Cayde.”

                  Zavala finally graced the conversation with his presence; Cayde had honestly forgotten the Titan was even there. He never wasted words on idle conversation if he could help it, fading into the background like a stoic, armor-clad statue.

                  “Zavala, back me up here,” Cayde said. “You _know_ there’s something off with that thing.”

                  “My stance on Xûr’s presence is as it always has been. The Agent is here as he has been assigned to be, and driving him off could incur further problems we can’t afford to deal with.”

                  Cayde opened his mouth to argue further, blue light spilling up from some unknown mechanism deep in his throat and shining like a spotlight onto Zavala’s face; the Titan held up his hand, silencing him.

                  “Everyone harbors at least some concern about him,” Zavala said. “But there are fights that are not yet worth picking, Hunter.”

                  “Right,” Cayde said flatly. “Just me being hotheaded and looking before leaping again.”

                  “I did not say that.”

                  “You don’t have to. I get it, I get it. Kneejerk….hair-trigger response.”

                  “You don’t get this descriptive unless you’re really grasping to continue a tirade. How many more metaphors do you even have?”

                  Cayde snorted, the frustration ebbing unexpectedly.

                  “Ikora Rey, did you just crack wise at me?”

                  She said nothing, simply shrugging and bowing her head down as though absorbed in her reading again. The unexpected venting of Cayde’s worries had met no neat resolution but it felt good to at least admit them aloud. Zavala went back to his stoic contemplations of reports from the latest theaters of war, and between the three of them a productive, companionable silence fell.

                  It all seemed to blur together after a while; Cayde found his attention wandering from reports of Fallen incursions to Vex tech salvage runs to faction petitions with the same slow, numb-minded response of the terminally bored. His Ghost flickered in and out of tangibility in its usual sympathetic response to his pent-up energy, drifting in a circuit around his head like a halo.

                  The rain carried on all day, the clouds going from slate grey to bruised, mottled greens and purples as the storm gathered strength in the evening. Cayde found his gaze drawn to the stretching windows that overlooked the wilds, watching lightning streak in jagged stripes from cloud to cloud and stabbing downwards. There was a forlornly howling wind that made the Tower banners snap and writhe on their poles, and Cayde indulged a moment’s imagination that he could feel the Tower itself shaking from the force. It was a bit interesting as far as weather went, and Cayde’s need for distraction was needling him into a small internal argument.

                  _Don’t comment on the weather. Don’t break the monotony by commenting on the weather._

                  “Hell of a storm.”

                  _Dammit._

Zavala spared a look over his shoulder.

                  “Nothing out of the ordinary for the summer months.”

                  _Don’t keep commenting on the weather. You’re better than this._

“Think it’ll mess up the incoming ships in the arrival lanes? Awful strong wind out there.”

                  _Dammit._

“Shouldn’t affect anything too adversely.”

                  “Ah. That’s good.”

                  _Let it drop. For the sake of Light, good sense and dignity. Don’t keep talking about the weather._

                  “Hope it blows over soon. Never was too fond of rain.”

                  _Dammit!_

                  “It’s good for the lawns,” Ikora said absently. “The tree out front’s been shedding a lot of dry leaves.”

                  “It has,” Zavala said.

                  _Oh my God, now we’re **all** talking about it. What have I **done**._

The storm howled on outside and Cayde berated himself silently against any further conversation at all. The storm had darkened the sky so completely it was impossible to tell when the sun had actually set, but Cayde could sense that the day was at last drawing to a painfully uneventful close.

                  “Some weather we’re having,” his Ghost said as they left. Cayde swatted at it without real belligerence.

                  “Don’t _you_ start on me.”

                  The Ghost gave a staccato rattle Cayde had long since identified as its laugh, drifting above his head as they left the Hall and into the rain-drenched plaza. Cayde’s hood blew back at once and he fumbled with it, growling in annoyance. He walked straight into a knot of Guardians headed towards the hangar stairway; they drew back apologetically, clearing the way. Cayde drew his hood back down and squinted at them in the murky half-light of evening, then back towards the hangar.

                  “Still so many people waiting,” he said. The Guardians had dispersed before he could speak to them, but the Ghost was hovering over his shoulder, its eye trained on the line.

                  “Xûr’s first days within the Tower are typically his most busy,” it said. “The effort to find where he is usually takes several hours in itself.”

                  “And he stays rooted to the spot the whole time,” Cayde murmured. “Every time he ends up in the Hall, he’ll just…lurk there. Hours on end all hunched over and rubbing his hands together. He had a moustache I guarantee he’d be twirling it.”

                  “You attempt to paint him in a villainous light, Vanguard.”

                  “Maybe. Probably _am_ being a mite unfair.”

                  “And you never have spoken with him at length,” the Ghost said mildly. Cayde grunted.

                  “Don’t aim to start, either.”

                  “Could be interesting.”

                  Cayde hurried under a nearby awning, wringing water out of the hem of his cloak.

                  “Little Ghost, I see right through you,” he said. “Not a chance on this good green earth.”

                  “And what are you going to be doing otherwise, other than sitting in your quarters lamenting about having to go back to the Hall tomorrow?”

                  “Trying to make me social?”

                  “Perhaps. It could do you some good.”

                  Cayde glanced over at the milling line, giving a shrug.

                  “Tomorrow. I’d rather not be a jackass and jump the line in front of all of them.”

                  “Something to look forward to, then. You have a stash of the currency he most often accepts. Perhaps the visit could be as lucrative as it is interesting.”                 

                  “Uh huh. _Go buy yourself something nice_ , right?”

                  The Ghost chirped in musical affirmative, and Cayde sighed.

                  “Alright. Something to look forward to.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Miss Holliday?”

                  Amanda grunted, more interested in the induction rod she was soldering than the meek-sounding mechanic at her elbow. The damn things were excellent for patching energy transference systems in the Phaeton jumpship classes, but they were brittle as hell; she went through five for every one she managed to actually get interfaced with the systems.

                  “Miss Holliday, I-”

                  “Mitch, I am powerful busy right now. Either say what you have to or let it go ‘til I’m done, ‘cause if I so much as _breathe_ on this rod wrong I’m gonna be out of materials ‘til the next salvage run.”

                  The mechanic was wringing his cap between his hands like a scolded schoolboy, shifting his weight from foot to foot and visibly trying to gather his words so he wouldn’t be shooed away from the workbench. Amanda leaned over the induction rod, muttering a continual stream of threats to it as though menacing the solder would make it stick. She spared Mitch a brief glance, frowning.

                  “Well?”

                  Mitch swallowed hard.

                  “It’s…it’s about the Jovian, Miss Holliday.”

                  Amanda’s frown deepened and she looked back at the rod.

                  “Xûr is nobody’s business but the Guardians’. You leave him alone.”

                  “I know that well enough, ma’am. But he’s been wandering and wound up on the bay floor, and-”

                  “Now hold on. Xûr doesn’t _wander_. He doesn’t so much a budge an inch when he visits.”

                  “I- I know that. We _all_ know that. Makes it easier to avoid him. But I swear, Miss Holliday! He made his way all the way down to the bay floor and he’s out in the northeast wing.”

                  “Northeast? That part of the Tower doesn’t do intake of ships anymore, primary lift’s been busted for ages. That’s all salvage processing now.”

                  “I’m tellin’ you, Miss Holliday! He’s just _lurking_ out there! He frightened off the whole crew!”

                  Amanda straightened up and slipped off her stool, the soldering forgotten. Mitch fell back a step; Amanda Holliday was an excellent shipwright and a fair hand when it came to managing the Tower’s hangar and all fleets of mechanics therein, but nobody with sense in their heads crossed her with complaints they couldn’t solve themselves. He winced in anticipation of a dressing down, but instead Amanda went right past him and down towards the service elevator. She backtracked for a moment and waved him along to follow.

                  “He must have his reasons,” she said, sounding displeased. “More to the point, it means that the _Nine_ have a reason, ‘cause that fella doesn’t so much as blink without their blessing. C’mon and show me were he’s roosted, Mitch.”

                  There was a gaggle of upset-looking techs and mechanics huddled around the service elevator when Amanda and Mitch made their way down to the bay floor; they parted in front of her as she strode ahead, marching towards the northeast wing. It had been hell on her trying to reroute Guardians to the only functional lifts left on the Tower when the northeast had shit the bed; she’d put in months ago to plead with the Vanguard for repair requisitions, but it had been low on their list of problems to address. So Amanda had let her salvagers move into the space in the meantime; honestly, the extra room they had to work in was almost worth the loss of the lift.

                  “He’s there, Miss Holliday.” Mitch pointed into the shadow cast by a hollowed-out Cabal interceptor chassis. The chassis itself had been dragged all the way back from Freehold, some smartass Titan’s idea of a trophy; Amanda had bought it off the Guardian for a bigger chunk of glimmer than she was willing to think on, but Cabal tech was invaluable for scrap. She crept close to the vehicle’s burnt-out shell, peering inside; a pair of yellow eyes stared back at her.

                  “Hi, Xûr.”

                  The Agent blinked slowly. Amanda imagined she could almost hear the rustling tendrils of dust and shade his face was made of, and it sent a shiver creeping down her spine.

                  “You are here to ask why _I_ am here,” Xûr replied.

                  “I am. My people are telling me you’re in places you ought not to be.” Amanda stepped into the shadows, closing the space between herself and Xûr. Outside she heard Mitch gasp sharply, but she ignored it. The Agent was in a tower full of Guardians. If he tried anything funny, it would be the last damn thing he ever did.

                  “I did not intend to cause distress,” Xûr said. He rocked slightly as he spoke, hands clawed up against his chest and fingers restlessly tapping. “My post was inconvenient. I was compelled to find a better place.”

                  “This isn’t a place that sees Guardian traffic. Your customers don’t come down here.”

                  “I understand this. But the particles of this self have been instructed, and I can only obey.”

                  Amanda pinched at the bridge of her nose and sighed heavily. Xûr was clearly not trying to give her a hard time; he sounded almost apologetic. When one was at the mercy of things like the Nine – whatever in all hell they were – there wasn’t much they could do if it inconvenienced others.

                  “How much longer will you be here?”

                  “Until I am recalled.”

                  “Xûr, _work_ with me here,” Amanda said, frustrated. “I got a hangar to run and ships coming in from all corners at all hours. We all appreciate what you bring in, but my people need to work without feeling unsafe in their own house!”

                  If Xûr was offended or upset by her sharpness he didn’t show it. He simply rocked in place, head weaving from side to side.

                  “The Nine understand your frustrations,” he said. “And apologize. But I am to remain until I am recalled, and it is here that I must stay.”

                  Amanda bit back the argument fighting to come out; it would be no better than trading words with the wind. She threw up her hands and turned away, stepping back out of the chassis.

                  “Alright. I’ll send any Guardians looking to buy down this way.”

                  “Thank you, Amanda Holliday.”

                  She paused, looking over her shoulder and squinting at Xûr. In all the years she had worked in the hangar and Xûr had been dropping in, not once had she ever told him her name. She decided not to press the issue and ask just where he had heard it from, unsure if she’d find the answer to her liking.

 

\--

                  Night fell.

                  In the night was darkness but it was not Darkness _,_ not the shroud nor the vacuum nor the slow wave of ruin that snuffed out all light and Light in an instant that took eons – Xûr stood in his corner in the darkness-that-wasn’t, rocking in time with the breathing of a living universe. His mind was not a mind but the voices of the Nine –but in the echoes of their voices he formed his own words and thoughts, and so Xûr was Xûr, a self in the body made from unknowable others. He contemplated himself as he moved with that slow, eternal breathing. A body of numberless particles and motes of dust, moving and manipulating the world around him – parts of the world manipulating itself, aware of itself.

                  He was alive and he was not. He had a name whose meaning he did not know, but understood that it named all that he was.

                  Xûr had sold many engrams and weapons and pieces of armor today. He had sold many things to many Guardians, and the coins the Nine desired sang in tandem with a ringing like the distant tolling of bells. He decided that he liked their song – it was a decision that was perhaps his own, and he hoped it would not change. And besides the coins, there were some precious few Guardians who had brought him motes of Light for special things he sold. The motes hurt to look at and burned his fingers when he touched them – and how was it he could touch Light, he who was made of dust and intention? The burn was agony but Xûr did not understand agony, and so he studied the sensation as he did the music of the coins, and could not decide if he liked it as he did the song.

                  It was late in the night. The universe breathed in and out, and within the exhalation that expanded the universes endless edges out a little further Xûr heard the soft footsteps of someone who crept towards him. The sound was tentative, careful -  they did not wish to be noticed. They were scouting the dark of the quiet hangar, breath that echoed trembling in a fear-clenched chest. Xûr waited quietly as the creeping thing slipped from shadow to shadow to his corner. The visitor slipped in and stared at him – he could only stare back, waiting for them to speak.

                  There was a Light at their shouder but it was not a Light that belonged to or with them – Xûr did not look at it, even as its luminous blue eye stared at him. The visitor spoke, and it was the Light that then spoke for them to Xûr.

                  “You are the Jovian.”

                  Xûr nodded.

                  “The Nine have made me, and so I am.”

                  “I have coins. Will you trade with me?”

                  The visitor watched him tensely; he could hear barely-controlled panic in their voice, though the emotions did not follow the translation from the Light. Xûr paused and listened to the voices of the Nine as they spoke amongst themselves. The Light and the visitor were growing agitated as he waited for them to decide. The visitor turned to the Light, shaking their head and pointing back to the path from where they had come.

                  “ _This was a mistake. I can’t be here. You said he would help me.”_

                 “We can’t leave yet. Xûr is-”

                  “ _A dead end! A waste of time! I can’t be here, I can’t stay – this is madness. I was a fool to listen to you._ ”

                  “It’s the only option you have. Just give him – give _them_ a moment!”

                  Xûr watched the pair argue, feeling the Nine’s fascination. The echoes fell silent and his thoughts became his own again, and he spoke over the pair firmly.

                  “What do you need of the Nine?”

                  The visitor and Light traded looks, that bright blue eye dimming briefly.

                  “A way to the House of Rain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I really left this one to gather dust for a while; sorry about that. Back on track!


	4. Chapter 4

  
  


“ _ My head keeps spinnin', I go to sleep and keep grinnin'- If this is just the beginnin',  _ _ my life is gonna be be-yooo-tee-ful-” _

Cayde was a lot of things, but a talented or even passable singer was not one of them. The console blaring one of his many records of ancient music was making the windows in his quarters vibrate. He lounged on a threadbare couch, squinting at the line of stitches in his cloak as he repaired a tear in the hem. His ghost sat on the couch arm beside him; its eye dimmed with every wavering, warbling note that came out of Cayde’s mouth, though it refrained from the criticism it was clearly holding back. Cayde glanced over at it and grinned.

“You have no appreciation for the classics, buddy.”

“On the contrary. I appreciate them a great deal. It is your uncalled for abuse of them that troubles me.”

The volume ticked up and the windows shook just a little harder; the ghost tilted its shell nodes in a reproving look that made Cayde laugh. 

“Don’t be a wet blanket, alright? I get enough of that from Zavala.”

The ghost phased out of sight and rematerialized on the other side of the small apartment, pointedly sitting in front of a monitor and beginning scanning the evening’s data dump. Cayde glanced at the quick-scrolling screen and down again, refusing to acknowledge the stack of work he’d brought home with him.

“You know we’re off-hours ‘til six. Let it sit.”

“If I do, you’ll forget it entirely. I download it for your benefit.”

“Mmf. Thanks, mom.”

The ghost made no reply and Cayde leaned over his stitching, running a thumb over the neat line. The cloak had seen more than its share of abuse in the field and Cayde was usually content to let its scars be, but catching the damn thing in a closing door and ripping it was the most inglorious way to see it damaged. He tied off the thread in satisfaction, folding the cloak up and setting it aside. The ghost had already moved on from the data dump and was watching some City network broadcast; the daily news by the sound of it, all New Monarchy politicking this and Tex Mechanica trade deals that. 

Cayde slid off the couch and wandered to the loadout bench in his back room; the small arsenal of hand cannons and shotguns was dusted, oiled and tuned up to the point of obsessiveness, clearly not needing servicing. He took a hand cannon down anyway and ran a rag over the barrel until it shone. He spun it in one hand, then the other, snapping his arm out to aim it again and again. His thumb drew the hammer down and the cylinder clicked  _ one-two-three, one-two-three _ \- his imagination filled in the thunderclaps of gunfire as he shot down shadows.

“Did you win?”

Cayde didn’t look over his shoulder at the ghost as it hovered beside him, merely spinning the hand cannon one more time for showmanship’s sake and setting it down.

“Took ‘em all down easy,” he said. “Never even saw me comin’.”

“A handy victory, then. Have you considered-”

A sharp pinging alarm came from the main room, cutting the ghost off. Cayde frowned and ducked out of the room; the console screen was red with an alert notification waiting to be received. His fingers traced across the haptic holographic screen, pausing the music and opening up a security Frame’s automated message. 

“Huh.” Cayde scanned the alert, then squinted and reread it. “That can’t be right.”

The ghost was already over his shoulder again, its eye flicking from the screen to him.

“Still listening to the police scanner?”

“It is  _ not _ listening to the police scanner.” The ghost’s silence made him clear his throat, shrugging awkwardly. “So it’s a  _ little  _ like listening to the police scanner. That’s not a crime.”

The message refreshed, new lines compiling across the screen. Cayde drummed his fingers on the desktop and suddenly pushed away, grabbing his cloak off the couch arm and slinging it over his shoulders. The ghost’s attention was divided, half between reading and listening as Cayde went back to the loadout room, sliding the hand cannon into the holster at his hip.

“Guardians that fly into contested territories heavy with Fallen activity frequently bring traces back with them,” it said. Cayde grunted. “This may be a false alarm, Cayde. One that we do not need to investigate.”

There was a strange, bell-like clinking as Cayde left the loadout room, stuffing a handful of coins into the pouch at his belt.

“We were gonna visit Xûr anyway, right? Two birds, one stone.”

“Cayde…”

“Just give me this, buddy. C’mon.”

Ghost and Exo stared at each other, neither giving quarter; after a moment the ghost’s eye dimmed and it flew to hover at his shoulder, and they left in silence.

 

* * *

 

 

Amanda had, as predicted, broken the last induction rod. Several Guardians out in Cosmodrome and Luna patrols had been tasked with gathering the things, but the hits to her already stretched glimmer budget spurred her to take one last ditch attempt to find them herself. It was late into the night and only a skeleton crew of Frames and a few techs were in the maintenance and ship bays, and none of the first and second shift salvagers. She rode the lift down to the northeast hangar, squinting at the notes she’d scribbled to herself. Four induction rods, two dozen hard point glass, and one bottle of marrow dust solvent. 

The irony that she was using literal bits and pieces of the enemy to service the army warring against them didn’t escape her, but it made her worry. Human technology had adapted and absorbed alien components to the point of dependency, and if  - no, not  _ if,  _ but  _ when _ \- they were driven away, what would become of the ships? Would the old birds be put to rest to make way for a new generation? Would Amanda find herself out of a job?

She shook her head, dispelling the thought. No use worrying at that particular bone. The war had been going on for longer than she’d been alive; no need to fret about loss of parts and components just yet. The service lift touched down and the door pulled back with a thin, rusty whine, and Amanda stepped out into the hangar. It was mostly dark,, only a few overheads throwing stripes of yellow light over the towers of boxes and shelves. She spared a glance over towards the interceptor, wondering if Xûr was still skulking around inside. No light touched the chassis, and she imagined for a moment his dusty, murky presence was making it darker. 

It was quiet as Amanda wended her way through the salvage, digging through a box full of iridescent blue wiring and circuit boards embossed with dense patterns that hurt to look at directly. She hummed to herself, digging out a handful of hard points from the bottom of the box; the edges on them were keen enough to draw blood and they were harder than granite, but if you angled them  _ just _ right...she smiled to herself, studying the fractal lacing that veined through the glass. The Cabal were brutal and cold, but even they managed to make beautiful things on occasion.

There was a soft static buzzing in a far corner that caught her ear, and Amanda straightened with a frown. As far as she knew the only things down here were her, the usual compliment of security Frames and Xûr. The buzzing came again, coupled with a faint scraping sound, metal dragging against metal. Amanda followed the noise, squinting into the deeper shadows of the empty hangar.

“Anybody there thinkin’ they’re bein’ funny, I tell you right now you’re not,” she said. “C’mon out where I can see you.”

The buzzing pulse came again, and in the dark Amanda saw something moving, two small red LEDs blinking at her. She approached it slowly and squinted as she knelt beside it; a security Frame, one she was familiar with for being stable and steady and rarely needing maintenance. It had been disabled, its head almost caved in and its limbs tied together with cabling. Amanda got abruptly to her feet, a chill of fear prickling down her spine. The buzzing was its feeble attempt at raising an alert, the blinking of its dying LEDs indicating a digitized alarm being broadcast.

“What the hell…”

Amanda backed away, feeling exposed and vulnerable in the shadows. Her days on the road had taught her the dark was an indifferent friend; it could conceal a frightened person from the enemy, but the enemy could use it to hide just as well, and ofttimes used it better. She had to get out of the hangar. Xûr wouldn’t budge an inch to help her, not if the Nine didn’t tell him to - she couldn’t count on him to do anything if she’d already been spotted. She padded backwards a few steps out of the dark, eyes wide and ears straining to catch any hint of sound. The soft static buzz followed her, the Frame’s struggling breaths as it tried to follow its alert protocols. What could have damaged it so badly? Xûr?

Amanda turned, muscles tensed to run towards the lift.

A bony hand reached out and caught her by the throat.

  
  


* * *

 

 

Cayde rested his hand on the holster, thumb tracing the edges of the hammer as he waited for the lift to the northeast hangar. The ghost was still at his shoulder, its eye dimming and brightening in a numerical pattern Cayde had long since identified as its ‘thinking face’.

“Bee in your bonnet?”

The ghost turned its eye on him, a shell node tilted downward like a furrowed brow.

“The message the Frame was sending seemed strange,” it said. “An alert of Fallen presence, then self-correction and notice of system shut down seems…”

“Fishy. The word you’re looking for is fishy.”

“Yes.”

Cayde shifted his weight from foot to foot, tapping on the lift summons again. It strained for a moment, the light blinking off and the grinding of cables going silent.

“Another unusual-” Cayde gave the ghost a look. “Another  _ fishy _ occurrence.”

Cayde tapped the summons one last time, unsurprised to find it deactivated completely. He abandoned the lift and jogged through the bay, pushing the door open to the stairwell winding its way down to the lower hangars and maintenance bays. 

“Should we notify Tower security?” the ghost asked. Cayde snorted.

“Those Frames have enough on their plates without having to deal with broken lifts and such. We got this covered.”

“You had said you deactivated the Frame monitor stream. Why did you lie to me?”

Cayde stopped halfway down the stairs, looking at the ghost narrowly.

“Can we have this discussion later?” The ghost tilted its shell nodes at him in a perfect approximation of a squint, then looked away. It started to speak but Cayde was already on the move again, leaving it behind. It sailed after him with a thin, rebuking stream of static. “Just leave it alone, ghost.”

The northeast hangar the Frame had broadcast its false alarm from was five flights down from the main hangar. Cayde pushed the door open quietly, slipping outside and his hand resting on the gun at his hip once more. The ghost flew past him, scanning the floor and particles floating through the still air.

“ _ I detect nothing, _ ” it whispered, its soft, lilting voice feeding directly into Cayde’s head rather than speaking aloud. Cayde nodded, pointing to the right with two fingers. It flew towards the salvage bay, running its scans through each row of boxes and shelves. Cayde approached the dark lefthand side of the hangar, loosening the thumb break of the holster and readying to draw. 

“ _ Cayde. I detect recent human presence, biosignature designated to Amanda Holliday.” _

Cayde scanned the shadows, olfactory and auditory sensors working overtime. The air was clean and still.  _ Too _ clean. The total absence of  _ anything _ in the dark was a flag. At the ghost’s words he glanced back towards the right; his innards jolted and the hand cannon had cleared leather in the space of a blink, aimed at the hunched figure standing at the border of light and dark.

“Xûr,” he said, the cannon aimed steady at the Agent’s head. He bowed in answer, yellow eyes blinking out from the depths of his hood.

“I am bid to give you a message,” he said. Cayde stepped closer, aim never wavering. If Xûr was bothered by the gun pointed at his writhing face he gave no indication, simply rocking slightly in place and his hands tapping a staccato rhythm against his chest. “Will you hear it, Cayde-6?”

“I’m all ears,” Cayde said. His ghost sailed past Xûr, nodes tilted back in alarm.

“Cayde, Amanda is-”

Cayde held his hand up, the other still aiming the cannon.

“Speak your piece quick, Jovian. I got a mighty big ‘ _ I told you so’ _ to give Ikora after this.”

There was a sound of scuffling and muffled shouting from the hulking chassis of an interceptor leaning against the far wall; Xûr waved his hand towards the approaching Fallen dreg keeping a hand clamped over Amanda’s mouth and a shock pistol digging into her side. 

“The lady Drasil of House King wished to trade with the Nine,” Xûr said, head weaving like a snake’s. “The Nine agreed to this, but we were interrupted. Twice interrupted, and again we attempt to trade. Your presence here complicates our transaction.”

Cayde’s eyes were fixed on Amanda; her hands were lashed together with wire and the Fallen’s claws had dug deep scratches into her cheek as it tried to keep her mouth covered. Cayde’s thumb pulled the hammer back, the cylinder clicking.

“Let her go,” he said. Xûr said nothing, and the dreg - Drasil? - stared at him with too-wide eyes, fear and anger roiling off her like waves of heat. “Amanda, I got this. Xûr, tell your friend to let her go. Nobody needs to die here.”

“Cayde,” the ghost whispered at his shoulder. “She has a…”

A small, white-shelled ghost drifted out from the interceptor, eye flicking from the dreg to Cayde. He stared at it in incomprehension, anger suddenly spiking as it hovered by the dreg’s shoulder. 

“Get away from that thing! Are you out of your goddamned mind? What are you even-”

Xûr stood straighter, the lights snuffing out. His eyes grew brighter as the stuff of his body unraveled, plunging the hangar into darkness. Cayde let off one shot with a cry of rage, then another, emptying the hand cannon - it was dark it was  _ Dark  _ he couldn’t see he couldn’t hear Amanda the light the light was  _ gone- _

Around him, in him, seeping into every crack and crevice of body mind and soul, Cayde heard Xûr whisper - but by the Light it wasn’t Xûr, it was something vaster, something that hurt Cayde even to try and compass-

“ _ We will continue this trade elsewhere. _ ”

The world turned darker than death, and Cayde saw nothing more.

 


	5. Chapter 5

5.

 

 

            The void was made of voices and they all spoke at once. Questioning in a language that he could not hear, soundless words rattling in his skull. He drew a breath to answer and it was not _air_ – he breathed and the breath was smoke was ice was water, drowning him as he tried to frame a single word and that word was

 

 

                                    _stop_

 

 

            There was a light touch at his shoulder shaking him, another voice coming from far away and yet he could hear it close to his ear and it was whispering _Cayde, Cayde dammit please wake up!_ The void roiled and pulled at him, and Cayde slipped away into it again.

            Amanda sat back on her heels, staring at Cayde’s prone body and desperately trying to ignore the wheezing, frightened breaths of the dreg on the far side of the room. They had all woken up at roughly the same time – Cayde and his ghost notwithstanding – and had quickly cleared to opposite sides of the space. Amanda’s face stung from the gashes Drasil’s claws had inflicted and her wrists were raw from the wire bindings, but she counted herself damn lucky it hadn’t been worse. Drasil sat hugging her arms around herself and muttering to her own ghost – and Amanda was staring daggers at the traitorous little machine, teeth gritted in a fierce grimace.

            The ghost was well aware of Amanda’s animosity and was carefully pretending not to notice it, speaking in a low, soothing musical lilt to the Fallen. All sympathy for the enemy and none for the human and Exo prisoners. Amanda poked at Cayde’s ghost again; its eye was dim but not dark, the metal gently warm to the touch. A sign of a dormant ghost, not a dead one. That at least was reassuring.

            “My apologies for the manner of transport.” Amanda turned her dagger glare on Xûr. The Agent was standing towards the back of the room with his hands folded up against his chest, his habitual rocking evenly paced and calm. He was looking straight back at Amanda, bobbing his head in genuine apology. “My movements are not always my own. A power greater than myself decided to move us to a more secure location.”

            “And where is that, exactly?”

            “I cannot say.”

            “Why? Because you don’t know, or because the Nine won’t _let you?”_ Amanda was on her feet and stomping towards Xûr before she even realized she was moving, her anger propelling her faster than her better judgement. “And just what in the hell happened to Cayde-6? What’s _wrong_ with him?”

            Xûr swayed, his eyes flicking past Amanda and landing on Cayde’s still body.

            “The Nine are inamicable to beings of Light, though this is not always intentional,” he said. “Sometimes the nature of the Nine interacting with Light may have side effects that are unexpected.”

            “Unexpected. So what does that mean? The Nine turned his brain to scrambled eggs?”

            “I cannot say.”

            Amanda’s hands tightened into fists and she resisted the screaming urge to reel back and punch Xûr in the face, if only on the principle she had no idea what would happen to her hand if it actually touched him. Xûr sensed her banked animosity and actually shuffled back a few steps, turning his attention to the still-muttering Drasil. She jumped at his gaze as though she could feel it, looking over at him balefully. The ghost tilted its shell nodes in the approximation of a scowl and sailed over to Xûr.

            “You frightened her,” it said, chastising. “This entire course of action was unnecessary.”

            Xûr simply stared at it. It sighed, its eye dimming briefly and flickering over to Amanda. She raised a finger in accusation, pointing right in its face.

            “You turncoat little _shit._ ”

            The ghost’s shell nodes shifted back in wide-eyed alarm, glancing quickly back at Drasil; the dreg was hunched over as she shuffled towards Xûr, giving Amanda and Cayde a wide berth. She muttered to the Agent and the ghost translated, its eye glancing awkwardly at Amanda. She sneered at the trio, turning her back to them and sitting down beside Cayde once more. It was a severe breach of unspoken etiquette to ever touch a Guardian’s ghost without permission from either the machine or Guardian themselves, but Amanda had long since been granted such permissions. She picked the ghost up gently and cradled it in her hands, fingers running against its stiffened shell nodes.

            The room they had woken in was dim, dusty and cold. There were no windows and no doors, and there was an odd sense of hollowness beneath the floor that gave Amanda dizzying jabs of acrophobia, as though she was sitting above a great, empty height. The room was full of a soft, indirect light she couldn’t pinpoint, glancing off motes of dust swirling slowly in the air. She entertained the brief thought that the motes themselves were creating the ambiance, some shattered beam of light from the Sun dispersed into tiny, faint fragments.   

            She still felt slightly sick deep inside from the unexpected travel, like a transmat that had mixed up a few particles and set things back wrong. The thing about Light was that it permeated everything. Everybody and everything had a little bit, even if it was just a gleam in the blood, the warmth of something pure inside. _Pratiya-samutpada,_ the Warlocks named it. The everywhere Light. The idea that the Nine had _touched_ that in her while bringing her here…Amanda shivered, holding the ghost closer to her in reflex. Some things weren’t meant to be taken apart and put back together. And if it was messing with her tiny Light, she couldn’t even imagine what it must have done to Cayde.

            “The House of Rain is broken and gone, Lady Drasil. The Nine are unsure if this is a trade they can complete to your satisfaction,” Xûr was saying. Amanda glanced over her shoulder at them with a scowl. The ghost relayed Xûr’s words to Drasil, who hissed loudly and clamped her hands to her head in obvious distress. She directed a slithery tirade at the ghost, who endured it for all of a minute before expanding into a ball of Light, its shell nodes in angry orbit around its central core.

            “Do _not_ speak to me as though I intended this!” it snapped at the dreg, English overlaying the Fallen language. Drasil’s eyes went wide and she leaned close to the ghost, ignoring the flare of Light. She hissed something in a low, cold tone that made the ghost dim as though in shame, its shell nodes retracting slowly. Xûr waited patiently, shrugging his shoulders to adjust the heavy pack slung over them.

            There was a soft, static-ridden gasp for breath, and Cayde’s eyes opened. The ghost in Amanda’s hands buzzed and its shell nodes twitched as it woke, its eye rolling up to look at her.

            “Miss Holliday,” it whispered. Amanda had never heard a ghost sound _sick_ before. “Are you alright?”

            Amanda managed a smile, setting it down gently beside Cayde. His gaze was erratic and wandering, the light of his eyes barely more than a glow.

            “I’m just fine,” she lied, her tone cheerful. She rolled Cayde’s cloak under his head and pillowed it; the metal was hot under her hand, as though he was fevered. “Its you two I’m worried about. If you can’t even handle a transmat, what good are ya?”

            Cayde’s hands were clawed against his chest, and the sound he was making sounded for all the world like choked, heaving breaths. As the ghost pulled itself up to hover, Cayde’s unsteady gaze skipped from it to her, and his voice was barely more than discordant noise.

            “Maya?”

            Amanda blinked, unsure how to respond. Cayde’s eyes closed and his body slackened, and for a moment she smelled burning metal and plastic. Something inside him was as mixed up as she was, but the wound had run far deeper. Amanda pressed a hand to her mouth as the ghost scanned and reconstituted and repaired, flashes of light illuminating pathways of circuitry under Cayde’s armor and plating. She had told off plenty of thanatonauts in her day for taking nosedives off the Tower – what if they hit a _ship_ , the death-crazy bastards? – but she had never seen a revival up close before. Something about it made her turn away, unwilling to look.

            Drasil was watching, her head tilted to one side. She murmured a question to the ghost, whose down-tilted shell nodes were her only answer. She shuffled forward, then knelt beside Amanda stiffly. Amanda recoiled, putting herself between Cayde and the dreg.

            “This is your goddamned fault,” she hissed. “You had no right to be in our Tower, you sonnuvabitch.”

            The dreg listened more alertly than Amanda anticipated, looking past her to Cayde. Her thin hands clasped together and for the first time Amanda noticed she had three arms, not the usual two. Her secondary left arm was docked, the cap looking new and unscuffed. Drasil caught her looking and waved her second right hand at it.

            “Gone,” she said. The word came out like a curse, the human language rough and unsure. “Cut away.”

            “You speak my language?” Amanda asked, surprise jarring her out of her instinctive loathing. Drasil pointed to the ghost, then at herself.

            “Light teaches,” she said. “My Light, it knows more than I. Words from your peoples, they are hard. Each, alone. No flow. Hard to learn.”

            “Sorry we can’t hoot like you do,” Amanda muttered. Drasil’s lips pulled back from her teeth, and despite the ugliness of it Amanda realized it wasn’t a hostile expression.

            “Sound better if your peoples did,” she said. “No flow to words. No music. Each one, spit out. My Light, it speaks it better. More clear for important flows.”

            “Like a trade with Xûr.”

            A strange, crackling sound came from behind Amanda. She, Drasil and the rogue ghost all looked over at Cayde; he was still ‘unconscious’, though the burning odor had faded away. Drasil sighed, passing her hands over her face and absently adjusting the Ether line fixed into her nostrils.

            “This one, this killing Light. Trouble. Only a trade with Nine, wanted I. To learn the songs of older flows. Must trade, my Light says. Must find the one who speaks for Nine and give coins, from my House’s troves. Not an arm they take if catching me, say I. My head and my breath. But my Light, it convinces.” She looked at Xûr, who was staring off at nothing at all. “For naught, says he.”

            “All this trouble just to get to another House?” Amanda asked. Drasil nodded. “I thought y’all got on like angry cats in a sack. How’d you think going to another House was gonna wind up? What’s the House of Rain? Another version of the House of Exile?”

            Drasil hissed and Amanda detected deep, offended anger this time. She drew back until she bumped up against Cayde, startled.

            “Not _Exile!_ War and pain and killing Lights, breaking the broken! No Fallen, I. No _Exile,_ I. _Eliksni,_ I.” Drasil thumped her chest hard with her primary right hand, claws scratching at her worn armor. “Old flows of better times, House Rain holds. Memory of hope and glory. When Eliksni were many, and Fallen none. Your peoples, you stand at edges lined with killing Lights. Between you and them, another fall. A new Fallen waiting to crawl out from the dark.”

            Amanda stared hard at her, lip curling in a sneer.

            “My kind is _nothing_ like yours, you scavenging lil’ _spider_ ,” she said. “We ain’t gonna take the Darkness in and make it an ally like you have. The Traveler came to us for a reason. And we sure as hell ain’t gonna betray it for survival’s sake and turn into things like _you._ ”

            Drasil spat a chittering, fluid stream of words Amanda had no doubt were curses, going back to Xûr. The rogue ghost hovered beside Amanda a moment, its musical voice soft and regretful.

            “There is much here that needs more proper explanation. I can offer it, if you want,” it said.

            “I got nothin’ to ask from a traitor fraternizin’ with the enemy.”

            The ghost hesitated, then slowly sailed back to Drasil. Amanda glowered at it and turned away, grabbing Cayde’s limp hand and holding it, squeezing painfully tight for comfort’s sake.

 After a long few moments, he squeezed back.


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

            “I’m gonna kill her and use that docking cap as an ash tray.”

            Cayde was sitting hunched over beside Amanda, arms wrapped around his middle like he was recovering from a gut-punch. His ghost hovered between them and its eye flicked from Cayde and Amanda as they spoke in hushed undertones.

            “Are you really?” Amanda asked.

            “Yes I am. Gonna pop it right off that nubbin arm and keep it on my coffee table,” Cayde grated. “And then I’m gonna kill Xûr and use his thrice-damned cloak as a bed for my cat.”

            “You don’t have a cat.”

            “I’ll _find one.”_

            He sounded overtired and hoarse, and Amanda could hardly blame him; Cayde had taken the sort of beating that would total most machines, Exo or not. He squinted at her and the glow of his eyes wavered like a brownout.

“I think we need to dial back on the murder plannin’. Least until we can get back to the Tower.” Cayde stared narrowly at her. “What?”

“Do you know what I have right now, Amanda?”

“Aside from a poor attitude?”

“A _hangover._  I want to _vent_ this hangover on that three-armed gremlin and the squid faced soot monster that gave it to me. What I can’t fathom is you _not_ wanting me to visit this on the people that kidnapped us.”

Amanda patted his shoulder sympathetically. “You really wanna know why I want you to calm down before you try and murder your way out of this?”

“Pray tell.”

She pointed to the empty holster at his hip. “Xûr took your gun.”

Cayde growled a string of bitter curses, but argued no further. It wasn’t much of a step in a more peaceful direction but at least he stopped grinding his jaw like he was clenching teeth. Amanda sat back against the smooth stone wall and took stock of the room while Cayde sulked off the hangover.

Drasil was sitting in the opposite corner of the room with her three arms wrapped around her legs, curled up into a miserable ball. Xûr stood in the center of the strange space and rocked in place, his hands curled up to his chest and his head swaying like a charmed serpent. Cayde’s hand cannon was nowhere to be seen, but Amanda had the nagging suspicion that it was stuffed into that bulging pack of his along with Drasil’s shock pistol.

“We’ve reached a bit of an impasse,” Cayde’s ghost remarked. Cayde ignored it in favor of his sullen pique, but Amanda glanced at it. “We have no idea where we are or what the Nine will do to us if this… _trade_ isn’t completed to each party’s satisfaction. There has to be a way we can move past this.”

“You’re probably the only one that thinks so,” Amanda said. The ghost whistled in disagreement, its shell nodes tilting forward in a slow wink over its eye. Without a word it suddenly sailed across the room, past the unresponsive Xûr and right up to Drasil’s ghost. It inched back to hide behind Drasil’s head, and she bared her teeth at the unwelcome visitor.

“Please,” the ghost said politely. “I apologize for any ill feelings my Guardian may have, ah…loudly and repeatedly expressed towards the pair of you. I’m only here to talk.”

Drasil clicked her teeth. “Not wanting talks, I. Only with the Xûr-creature. But silent now, he. Travels and troubles end here in this room for all.”

“I disagree. Xûr – or more likely, the ones that created him – are observing our hostilities and waiting for us to come to a neutral agreement.” The dreg snorted dismissively. Cayde’s ghost was undaunted, looking to Drasil’s companion with an almost beseeching note in its voice. “Please. We are in this situation by unexpected circumstance. We must work together if we are to escape it.”

Drasil’s ghost whirred and hummed to itself before slowly drifting out from behind its shelter, shell nodes twitching. “None of this is going as I expected it would.”

“Best laid plans?”

“Always most liable to fall apart at the first shifting of the wind.” The rogue ghost’s shell nodes twitched again like an nervous tic. “The human and Guardian won’t listen to her _or_ me. I couldn’t ask you to be a mediator…”

“Try me. I’m always willing to listen to a sibling construct.”

The rogue ghost stared at its fellow in surprise, its eye brightening a little. “Very well.” It glanced at Drasil. “May I?”

Drasil waved a hand dourly. “If it offers a listening ear…yes, say I. Better than brooding silence.”

The two ghosts drifted side by side and moved a little way off from the room’s other occupants, keenly aware that three of them were watching the constructs.

“Now then,” Cayde’s said. “Should I ask the most obvious first?”

“No. I might as well start there anyway,” the rogue said. It looked toward Drasil again; the dreg was fiddling with her breathing apparatus, switching out a used sup for a new one from a pouch at her belt. “It’s…well. This whole thing really started through carelessness on my part. I have no Guardian of my own. I’ve been looking for them for so long it seems likely now there’ll never be a partner compatible with my Light.

“I’ve searched. From the moment I became _me,_ finding a partner was the only thought that guided me. I’ve gone from one corner of the world to the other without success. After a while the guiding thought stopped being a hope and more of a burden, and eventually my search just…turned to wandering.”

Cayde’s ghost hummed in sympathy. An unpaired ghost after so many centuries was something to pity, a Light slowly flickering as it struggled to find a Guardian to quicken and bond with. The rogue’s voice was tinged with sadness, its shell nodes tilting downwards.

“I wandered wherever the wind blew. And one night over a year ago, it blew me towards a Fallen encampment. They were so well hidden in the ruins…I went into the old wreck of a house to get out of the rain, and the next thing I knew I’d set off proximity alarms. I tried to get away but the shanks found me.” The ghost’s voice shivered. “If I’d had a Guardian with me I don’t think I would have been so terrified. But they’re so much bigger than we are, and they _hurt._

“The dregs who owned the shanks came and caught me. It was humiliating. They chased me with a _net_ and caught me like a rabbit. I figured they’d smash me apart right then and there, but instead they brought me to their crew’s chief vandal, and _he_ brought me to the captain.”

The rogue was pacing in mid-air now; it was clear the story troubled it, and Cayde’s ghost was regretful to put it through the ordeal of retelling.. It looked past the rogue towards Cayde and Amanda’s corner, and was unsurprised to see they’d fallen silent, straining to listen to the rogue’s soft voice.

“Go on,” it said gently. “What happened next?”

“The captain put me in a cage,” the rogue muttered. “She showed me off like I was a trophy and started trying to interrogate me. Asking about the Traveler. I tried telling her over and over I didn’t know anything about it. Eventually she got sick of trying to wring information out of me, but she knew she couldn’t just… _kill_ me. Who knew if she and her crew would ever get the chance to catch another ghost?

“She couldn’t kill me, so she just put me away. That crew’s hoard is really something to see. So much glimmer you’d think they’d knocked stars out of the sky and boxed them up. They left me on a shelf and let me collect dust.”

The rogue looked over to Drasil again. The dreg was watching them as keenly as Amanda and Cayde. “They’re jealous of their hoards, House King. They guard them day and night. Dregs, of course. Cannon fodder in case of invasion.”

Cayde’s ghost glanced over at her as well. “And Drasil was one of the guards?”

“No. She’s as close to a civilian as the Fallen have,” the rogue replied. “Her position is unique in the crew.”

“Oh?”

“She was the captain’s sister.”

“Oh…” Cayde’s ghost took a better look at Drasil. She was rangy and unimpressive physically, the tuft of blue-dyed hair usually cropped on dregs long and hanging down in a thin braid past her shoulders. She wore armor, true, but it fit her poorly. The only thing that really marked her as the same sort of Fallen it recognized was her missing arm. “I don’t understand. The Fallen don’t strike me as prone to familial sentiment.”

“That sentiment is the reason Drasil’s still breathing and only short _one_ arm,” the rogue said. “She failed her dreg initiation. Her sister intervened.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Because clever, I.” Drasil glared at them from her corner. “Said, more useful on ships and with Servitors, fixing machines. Clever and _cowardly,_ say old captain. But sister Droksis, she says, ‘Drasil, she is more use fixing than fighting’. Saved me.”

“She stuck her neck out for you,” Amanda said. Drasil looked away. “So she vouches for you and then you take off with her prize prisoner?”

“That’s not what happened,” the rogue said sharply. “After Drasil arrived, Droksis put her in charge of the crew’s _stories_.” Amanda and Cayde looked at the ghost blankly, and Drasil hissed out a sharp sigh through her teeth. The rogue ghost continued on undaunted.

“Stories are how they maintain their history. Word of mouth, saved to Servitor databanks, engraved on bits of scrap metal. They had and lost their own Golden Age. They called Drasil clever, but she is a _historian._ The hoard isn’t just tech and glimmer, it contains that branch of the King’s personal histories. When she arrived to put those annals in order, she found _me.”_

Drasil sighed again. “Ignored it at first, I. Told they were wicked things, little Light-thieves that breathed ether into the dead, making them rise again. Afraid of it, I.”

“I was just as afraid of her. But eventually she realized I wasn’t going to do anything to hurt her – and how could I, locked in a cage? She still ignored me, but she didn’t seem to mind me as much. I listened to the recordings and watched the vids she cataloged. I learned the Eliksni language from her, bit by bit.”

“An indifferent teacher, I. The flow of accent is still poor.”

“Yes, well.” The rogue ghost seemed amused, its dour mood lifting. “She finally approached me when I greeted her in her own language one morning. We talked a little. I was so starved for any conversation at all, I…I suppose I sort of bonded with her. I can’t split my Light with her, obviously. But I didn’t feel that deep loneliness I’d had for centuries anymore.”

“Helped me in duties,” Drasil said. “Put House King stories into order. When old stories were made orderly, began to record my own. My Light, it taught about Earth. In exchange, told my Light of the home-ketch, of Eliksni life. Stories my mother told Droksis and I. Old Houses, great Kells. The breaking of House Stone’s Kell and the fire that sprung from his shattered crown. The whispers and prophecies of House Rain. The Whirlwind and Fallen chasing the shadow of the Great Machine.”

Cayde glared at Drasil but she didn’t seem to notice. She uncurled and sat up straighter. “Eventually began asking about the City, offering myths and legends. Told favored stories of House Rain, of the Kell of Kells and the rebirth of Eliksni. My Light, it asks, ‘did House Rain not follow the Great Machine like other Houses?’. Could not answer, I. House Rain lost. But began thinking, what if House Rain _did_ follow? House Judgment has only one left, but in that one the stories of his House still live, and so is not lost.”

She looked over at Xûr, her expression tight. “My Light, one story told was of a creature made of dust, who visited with great gifts in the Tower of the City. Who was the servant of wise, unknowable things. Things that see past the borders of this Darkness-ridden place, who might see where House Rain yet lingers.

“Thoughts of House Rain consumed. That their prophecies and stories might still live. Thoughts of Xûr-creature, trading for hope…could be more than a hoard-keeper for House King, but a bringer of…of light. Not always in shadow and violence, we. Proud, once. Noble. Not mutilating and killing, scraping to survive.” She looked at Amanda and Cayde, her face twisting up as her voice cracked. “Trying to _help_ Eliksni. Helping _I._ Said to my Light, ‘help find House Rain, and releasing back to City, I. Setting free, you’.”

“And she did,” the ghost said softly. “She risked her life breaking me out. I showed her how to sneak into the City undetected. It took weeks getting from Twilight Gap to the Tower.”

“Zavala will have a stroke when he hears that,” Cayde muttered. The ghost stared hard at him.

“Drasil is the only Eliksni within a thousand miles of the City that knows how to sneak past the Gap and Shaxx’s Redjack patrols,” it said. “I guided her every step of the way.”

“Most folks would call that _treason_.”

“And most people would shoot Drasil dead on sight. She doesn’t deserve to be murdered for holding onto _hope_ , Cayde-6.”

Hunter and ghost stared at each other for a long, tense minute. Amanda hesitated and slowly reached out to Cayde; her light touch on his shoulder made him blink. “Don’t tell me you buy into this, Amanda.”

“I’m holdin’ out judgment ‘til the story’s done,” she said. Drasil made a guttural sound deep in her throat.

“Story ends,” she said bitterly. “The Nine’s servant speaks naught of House Rain. The Nine do not see them.”

The rogue ghost made a rueful sound of agreement. “It does seem as though it was a misguided attempt. I accept responsibility for all of this. It was my doing.”

No one spoke. Cayde was clearly unconvinced, but Amanda found herself wavering. She deeply resented the fact that Drasil had decided to _assault_ her in the hangar to remove a liability, but the Eliksni looked so despairing and broken it was hard not to sympathize slightly. Lord knew she probably shouldn’t – Eliksni or Fallen, creatures like this were what had haunted Amanda’s family on the road to the City; they had lost a great deal before arriving at the gates. Amanda’s gaze lingered on the stump of Drasil’s lost arm and she found herself wondering exactly how a dreg could fail its initiation.

She wondered what game the Nine were playing, and if they were as ignorant to the House of Rain as they claimed.

“Cayde,” she said. He grunted in acknowledgement. “You ever talk to Petra anymore?”

“…we keep in touch.” He leaned slowly towards her, voice a pitched whisper. “Why.”

“Suppose there’s an awful lot of Fallen wrecks out in the Reef,” she replied, slanting a look towards him. “Wrecks that might have records of their Houses.”

“Could be. No business of ours.”

“True. But this might work in mutual favor, if it _were_ our business. Now, just _suppose_ we sent Petra a message about a Fallen interested in peaceful salvage over wanton murder. And _suppose_ it gave us a one-up on the Nine, not to mention over the Fallen in terms of tech and intel, _supposing_ we get samples back for study.”

Cayde grunted again. “That’s an awful lot of _supposing._ ”

“True.” Amanda fixed a jaundiced eye on Xûr; he rocked slowly in place, but there was a keen observation to his bright eyes that betrayed where he was focusing his attentions. “None of us wanna be here. But… _supposing,_ mind you…”

“We team up on a salvage run for a magical Fallen House of Mystery, and in return walk away with enough Fallen tech to keep the Warlocks and foundries in the City happy for the next decade,” Cayde said. He hummed in thought. “You got an insidious mind, Miss Holliday.”

“No more than yours, Vanguard. Just takin’ the twists’n turns as they come. Survival’s messy.”

“So’s negotiations.” Cayde was silent for a long moment, then slowly stood. He swayed for a moment but shook it off as he approached Drasil; the Eliksni watched him balefully, curling up as though expecting him to attack her.

“Are you killing?” she asked. Cayde shook his head.

“Not at the moment,” he said. “How ‘bout you and I _talk_ a spell.”


	7. Chapter 7

7.

 

 

            There was a song in Drasil’s head as she lay dying on the ground. When she had been a small child, curious and openly eager to learn everything she could about _anything_ , anything at all, she had asked her ketch’s Pilot Servitor if it knew how to sing. It had stared at her with its single eye like a spotlight shining down on her, the purple light so bright it had made her squint and shield her face with all four hands, giggling. The crew tolerated Drasil’s intruding presence because her father was the lead engineer, her mother a respected soldier. The Pilot Servitor – or so Drasil liked to imagine – seemed to like her for her own merits. It had spun a few times in the socket that locked it into place on the ketch’s bridge, fixing that brilliant eye on the field of asteroids outside. Drasil waited and waited until her patience began to wane, and she wondered if she had finally pushed its own tolerance of her too far.

            The song it sang as she began to creep away was old, but a Servitor’s memory was incorruptible and vivid, everything it had ever seen or heard locked into itself and recalled easy as breathing. Drasil had stood frozen in delight as the Servitor sang to her, and for a moment every crewman on the deck had stopped their work and listened. Soft and sorrowing and reaching for fragile, faint hope, but a faint hope was better than none.

 

_Where will the tired travelers find hearth and home again?_

_Where has our grace gone?_

_Give up, say the dying. Give in, say the dead._

_But we will walk in clouds of dust and the light of strange stars, ‘til we find home again._

_Who is so weak to give up hope, we ask?_

_Who will be the first to lay down and submit?_

_Not I, we say._

_Not I._

“Be brave,” Droksis had said. “Make no noise.” An easy bit of advice to give when one was strong and full of courage. She had allowed her captain to cut off her arms, to sear the wounds and cap them without a sound. She was brave. She had always been brave, more than Drasil ever was. Everything she did brought bounty and glory to the ketch. No wonder she had so quickly ascended and been made captain – maybe one day she would have her _own_ ketch, and she herself would lead the first strikes against the bastioned City, and take the machine-god for House King.

            Maybe. But if only not for Drasil.

            Weak, weeping, cringing Drasil. Shame of her kindred, a dreg who had screamed and begged for mercy as her arm was cut away. The captain stared down at her, repulsed by her weakness.

 

            _Where has our grace gone?_

           

            Drasil gasped for breath as the ether flooded out from her dreadful wound; the captain would not cauterize it, would not cap it. She had failed – more than failed, she had shamed herself and torn free of the restraints a thousand dregs had stepped into before her, letting their arms be docked. She wept and pressed her face to the cold floor, sounds going distant and flat around her as her lifeblood leaked away.

           

            _Who will be the first to lay down and submit?_

 

            _Not I, we say._

_Not I._

She had been dimly aware of a tall, formidable figure looming over her, but tears and failing sight hid their face. Drasil howled in agony as the iron was pressed to her mutilated flesh, the cap thrust onto the stump. _I will sicken from this,_ Drasil had thought stupidly. _The wound wasn’t even cleaned._

Indistinct voices howled above her and a hand grabbed roughly at her face, wrenching her head upwards; her would-be captain was cursing at the one who carried her – and who else could it be but Droksis, sister, gloried captain, rising Kell – and all around them were the vicious jeers of their crewmates, _dock the other arm, let her bleed, she’s failed!_

 _Where has our grace gone?_ Drasil thought, the song turning bitter. **_What_** _grace?_

The hand clutching her face, its claws biting into her skin, gripped suddenly tighter and then went slack. The room went deadly still and silent, and far above her Droksis asked the room – _Who else questions me?_

Drasil’s insides heaved at the smell of fresh ether leaking from the other captain, and her wavering vision fixed on his body laying twisted and limp on the floor, a smoking hole in his armored chest. No one spoke up against her, but Drasil could feel the heaviness of their hatred as Droksis carried her from the initiation chamber.

            “I will be the death of you,” she said.

            “Death is my shadow,” Droksis replied. “I am not afraid of it.”

            Drasil stared up at her sister and the shameful weeping renewed; she said nothing more, and Droksis bore her safely away.

           

* * *

 

 

            Eight months and several uncounted days later, Drasil sat in a small, uncomfortable room while a creature with a harsh starlit eye stared down at her. It was _full_ of starlight, silvery traces drifting on its skin like smoke, and that _eye-_ brilliant blue-white, boring into Drasil.

            “Cayde-6… you don’t do anything by halves, do you?”

            Cayde sat propped up against the wall looking up at her, gesturing idly with one hand. “Petra my love, you would be sore disappointed if I didn’t make things fun for you. Not every day the Vanguard visits the Reef, is it?”

            “Not every day _anyone_ visits the Reef, because we don’t particularly _like visitors._ ” Petra’s gaze finally moved from Drasil to Amanda to Cayde, and then at the two ghosts hovering side by side towards the cell’s back. “The Prince was most displeased with the reports his Crows gave him about your arrival, you know.”

            “The Prince! How _is_ Uldren, anyway? Still sour as old vinegar?”

            Petra fixed a withering look on him, shaking her head as she offered him her hand. He took it and groaned as she hauled him up, swaying hard and leaning against the wall. “I feel like there’s a story here you just can’t wait to tell me, Vanguard.”

            “Well, it starts with a tentacle-faced dust monster kidnapping us and ends with us dumped on your doorstep to ask a damn big favor.”

            “I see. And the human and Fallen are…?”

            Amanda snapped a weary salute to Petra. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s the Eliksni askin’ the biggest favor here.”

            At the word ‘Eliksni’ Petra’s gaze turned sharp and interested, and Drasil couldn’t keep herself from flinching as that star-like eye fixed on her again. “A House King dreg…you’re awfully far from Old Russia, aren’t you?”

            “Far from anywhere that matters, I.” Drasil forced herself not to look away, though her insides writhed in growing fright as the Awoken woman watched her. “Maybe going somewhere that matters more than anything.”

            “Very poetic,” Petra said dryly. “Well, you’re all here, nobody’s dead and malfunctioning anymore-” Cayde gave a tired, slightly static-edged _ha._ “And you all look in desperate need of food. Unless you just plug into a wall outlet, Cayde? I’ve never been very clear how Exos replenish themselves.”

            “The light of your sunny personality’s all I need, Queen’s Wrath.”

            There was a half complement of guards outside the cell, and they watched without protest or open dismay as Petra lead the ragged group out. Amanda caught one staring openly at her, baffled by her lightless eyes.

            “Is it _sick_?” she whispered as Amanda passed her. The other guards shook their heads, their whispers pitying and slightly repulsed.

            “No. It’s unfinished.”

            Amanda decided she’d rather not know how a human could be _unfinished,_ letting the comment slide. Drasil walked in step beside her and muttered to her ghost, the Eliksni language a strange, twisting flow of words blending one into the other. The ghost twitched its shell nodes in a wink, murmuring back to her – Drasil blinked and Amanda was startled by the sudden laugh she gave.

            “Y’all havin’ fun?” she asked. Drasil’s frail amusement wavered, but then she straightened and gave an awkward, bobbing nod.

            “My Light, it says we have been through worse. But can’t think of what that could be, right now.”

            Amanda smiled a little, casting an airy look around the cold corridor. “I agree. Could be worse. I mean, not like Xûr didn’t toss us into the middle of highly hostile territory without so much as an _if you please.”_

            Drasil gave another short laugh. “Full of starry-blooded cold things, hiding in the asteroids. Not the worst place to be at all. The Xûr-creature was most accommodating.”

            Xûr had left them some hours ago, dumping them in the middle of a Vestian Outpost docking bay before simply up and disappearing. Amanda had been on the cusp of getting sick all over the guards who had rushed to capture them, staring daggers at the Agent.

            “I am recalled home,” he had said. “Payment will be exacted upon my return.”

            Everything had gone blurry and nauseated after that, punctuated with the sizzling sound of Cayde’s frying circuits, his inner machinery breaking down again. They had all come to their senses in that little cell, piled on top of each other – Amanda tried not to think what the Awoken would have done if Petra hadn’t been summoned to interrogate the intruders. The docking bay was wide open, and a long drop, after all. Heaving their visitors into hard vacuum might have been the easiest way to deal with the issue.

            She was getting the feeling they wanted to do that anyway, Petra’s opinion be damned. As they left the corridor and found themselves back in the open Outpost, Amanda felt attention like a heavy shroud cloak over them, every Awoken in the place staring as Petra chattered with Cayde, letting him lean on her for support as he staggered. Drasil shied away from the Awoken and cringed as several Fallen walked past her, hiding her ghost with all three hands and staring fixedly ahead. Amanda’s eyes met one of the Fallen’s and it hissed something at her, voice hollow behind its ether respirator. Drasil stopped, turning and snarling something so loudly the Fallen jolted and fell back a step.

            “Don’t antagonize the guards, dreg,” Petra called, her light tone very pointed. Drasil bared her teeth at the three Fallen, staring them down until they walked off. Amanda hesitated, but then very lightly touched Drasil’s shoulder.

            “C’mon. Nothin’ to fuss over.”

            Drasil muttered under her breath, her ghost drifting out from its makeshift hiding place under Cayde’s cloak.  “Please don’t go picking fights, Drasil.”

            “Not picking, I. Started it, they.”

            “Yes, well. Try not to get down to their level then.”

            They met with no other Fallen and the Awoken seemed to be giving them a wide berth, as though afraid they were contaminated. Petra showed them into large room with a broad view of the asteroid field outside, massive rocks and the floating debris of ancient ships drifting through the particulate clouds. She gestured to a Frame painted with the Queen’s insignia, and it marched stiffly out of the room.

            “Your food will be around shortly. I’m _almost_ certain it won’t make you sick, human.”

            Amanda grunted, taking a seat uninvited at the long table by the window. “I don’t care at this point. Thank you, Miss Venj.”

            “ _Miss_ Venj…oh, I like that.” Petra sat down at the head of the table, leaning back in the chair and her hands steepling together. “Now, Cayde…how about you give me the summary of this little adventure?”

            Cayde was standing by the window, a hand pressed against the glass as he watched the fuselage of a passenger ship slowly drift past. “If I do, how likely are you to help us out afterwards?”

            “Depends entirely on what you’re asking.”

            “You know anything about the House of Rain?”

            Petra was silent a moment, her eye flicking to Drasil again. “Only what Variks has told me. A house of oracles and seers.”

            “An ancient house,” Drasil said softly. “Respected, wise, sought after to advise. No Kell wore their crown without one of House Rain whispering how they might keep it.”

            “Sounds a little conniving.”

            Drasil shook her head sharply. “No. No cunning plots in their whispers. House Rain _knew._ It _saw._ Searching for them, I. To know as they did. To see. To help Eliksni.”

            “I’ve never met an altruistic Fallen in my life,” Petra said. “And I’ve met _plenty._ The Prison of Elders is stuffed full with them. Are you going to sit there and tell me you want to do this out of the goodness of your…what I _assume_ you have as a heart?”

            Silence drew out in the room, heavy and cold. Drasil held Petra’s gaze and her expression hardened with resolve, the single word dropping like a stone from her lips. “Yes.”

            Petra’s eye narrowed and she glanced up at Cayde; he nodded to her. “She’ll find a way to do it whether you help or not, Queen’s Wrath.”

            “And you vouch for her?”

            “Hell no I don’t. But that ain’t the point. Me and Amanda, we’re the interlopers here. Drasil’s been forging this path for herself for a long while.”

            Petra fell quiet again, considering. After a moment, she gave a small, wry smile.

“I’d be a fool not to let this play out,” she said. Drasil blinked at her, and over her shoulder her ghost tilted its shell nodes back, hopeful and surprised. “Fill me in on the details and let’s see just how much I can do for you.”

Cayde and Drasil spared each other the briefest look; there was no liking and little understanding, but in that moment their enmity banked back slightly. Gathering herself up, Drasil leaned forward and told Petra everything, hope clear in every word.


	8. Chapter 8

8.

 

            The sun was a small and faded thing. Its light could barely cut through the thick particulate clouds that drifted across the Reef. Cayde stared at the dim silvery blot through veils of amethyst gas and wondered what time it was in the Tower right about now. Ikora and Zavala would mark one day’s absence as an abuse of sick leave he didn’t need, expecting Cayde to swan in the next day with an excuse of rusty joints or a driver that needed tuning up. How many days had passed since Xûr had snatched them all up? Had time passed at all? Hell if he knew. Things had stopped making any kind of decent sense ages ago.

            The Awoken were being civil if not friendly, but that wasn’t concerning him overmuch. Petra was handling all the finer details of Drasil’s little death wish excursion into the edges of the Reef – another bit of sense he couldn’t suss out for the life of him, that the Queen’s Wrath should take such vested interest in one crazy Fallen. He mulled on what the rogue ghost had said to him, such anger in its soft, melodic voice.

            _And most people would shoot Drasil dead on sight. She doesn’t deserve to be murdered for holding onto hope, Cayde-6._

            The words ran in an ugly cycle in Cayde’s mind and had been for some time. How many were like Drasil? Not just the Fallen, but the whole damn cadre. Were there weary Cabal soldiers, exiled from their Empire, who only wanted to go home, away from this Darkness-ridden system? Were there Vex that sat outside the communing minds of greater processes, contemplating moments of stillness in between the endless clashes against Guardians?

            Were there…no, probably the Hive was content to be awful up from the highest knight down to the lowest creepy, screechy thrall. Some things were just born wicked.

            Cayde pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, grumbling at the thoughts that would not leave him be. He couldn’t afford to see any shade of grey. The Light was stark, easy to understand and follow. The Traveler was good. The Darkness was bad. The things that had come howling in the Darkness’ wake were even worse. He couldn’t let his convictions waver. Lives depended on his decisions, not just those of his Hunters but the lives of every person in the City.  Guardians didn’t waver, and he was a _Vanguard, goddammit-!_

            “Cayde?” Amanda’s voice cut through the noise and Cayde’s mind settled. He looked over at her as she sat down next to him. She still looked tired but not as strained as before, rest and food putting the color back in her cheeks.

            “Where’s your entourage of admirers?” he asked, grinning when she grumbled in annoyance.

            “ _Gawkers_ , you mean. They got bored with me when I made it clear I wasn’t interested in answering any more of their questions.”

            “You handled ‘em gracefully. They’ll be telling the story for ages, y’know. Meeting a real live human isn’t an everyday occurrence.”

            “I know. Kinda weird to think about. I never thought of humans and Awoken as separate species,” Amanda mused, looking out into the particulate and watching a small cloud of debris drift past. “The way they look at me…they _pity_ me, Cayde.”

            “Don’t take it personally. They’re star-mazed.” Amanda elbowed him with a scolding sound. He rocked to the side with the jab, laughing quietly. “Just calling it like I see it.”

            “Well, we depend on their good graces if we all wanna keep breathing, so maybe keep that call on the down low.”

            “Yes’m.” Cayde fell silent as he contemplated the debris cloud, watching weak sunlight glance off clumped shards of broken glass. He could feel Amanda’s sidelong looks and eventually turned to her, curious but unspeaking.

            “Cayde…” Amanda’s voice trailed off. He watched her as she visibly faltered, trying to pull a question together. It concerned him; Amanda was one of the most cut-and-dry people he knew. For her to be hedging meant something was bothering her at a level she wasn’t comfortable confronting.

            “I’m gonna get you home,” he said, trying to guess his way through her distress. “I’ve weathered a lot of impossible odds in my day and I _promise_ you. You’re gonna get home in one piece.”

            She smiled at that. “I know. You’ve told me all about exploring the Jovian moons and facin’ down Cabal scout sorties single-handed, you got enough bravado to shield me to the Oort Cloud and back. I ain’t worried.”

            “That’s a lie if I ever heard one, Miss Holliday.”

            “Says the consummate liar. Like knows like.”

            “I don’t _lie_. I embroider the truth to make it pretty.” Cayde adjusted his cloak to blanket Amanda as she leaned against him, head resting on his shoulder. “No story’s worth its salt if it’s just the truth.”

            “So how’s this embroidery not lying?”

            “‘Cause all it does is decorate the edges. The magazine wasn’t half-full, it was down to a quarter and the odds drew in tighter. The ship was chased across the wastes a full day and night, not just a few hours to the edge of contested territory. Makes it more riveting, gives the audience a richer payoff for listening to the whole prattlin’ tale.”

            “They call that being an _unreliable narrator,_ y’know.” Amanda looked up at Cayde for a long moment, that falter in her thoughts crossing plain as day over her face again. “Makes it harder.”

            He frowned at her. “Makes what harder?”

            Amanda’s gaze fell away from his. The question weighing heavy on her tongue wouldn’t come out. _Cayde, who is Maya?_ She wanted to ask, but the foreboding sense this was something she wasn’t meant to know kept her silent. She shook her head and glanced up at him once more, her grin wry.

            “Makes it harder to come up with a story to match, once we get back home.”

            Cayde knew a dodge when he saw one but didn’t push it. He shrugged grandly, playing along. “Sorry I’m the better storyteller.”

            “Yeah, yeah…”

 

 

* * *

 

 

            “So, you are the guest Petra speaks of.”

            Drasil jolted and looked up from the cargo manifest Petra had given her to review, squinting at the hunched over Eliksni lurking over her shoulder. Her first instinct was to pick up and move across the outpost – not from any real antipathy, but the reflexive reaction to anyone approaching and speaking to her. Her instincts banked back as she took her visitor in, and with a surge of recognition and shock she jumped to her feet and bowed her head low.

            “Scribe,” she said respectfully, slipping into their shared language. “House King greets House Judgment, and wishes peace between us.”

            The old Eliksni made a pleased sound low in his throat, his grin barely visible behind his chain-link veil. He surprised her in his answer, keeping to the difficult human tongue. “Old manners…House Judgment speaks peace with House King, and greets its worthy daughter. Come, spare a moment for Variks.”

            She followed with slight uncertainty as Variks waved her along, his artificial arms creaking and whining from joints in need of oiling. In a dingy, far corner she spotted the tattered banners of House Judgment, the emerald fabric dulled with age and dust. He lifted the privacy curtain that hid his chambers from the cold, too-open outpost, and Drasil ducked inside.

            “In hospitality, Variks offers his home, hearth, and breath,” the scribe said. He leaned his staff against the far wall and settled onto a clearly homemade chair of empty metal boxes and threadbare pillows. He swept his hand to a stool beside him, and Drasil sat. He had once again spoken in that human language and he was clearly waiting for her answer. Taking the unspoken hint, she replied and hated how the human words twisted the hearth-greeting.

            “Taking breaths, warming at hearth, and entering home in good faith, I. Thanking, you.”

            Variks inclined his head. “Well-mannered _and_ astute. Awoken do not care for Eliksni language. We speak the Queen’s tongue in the Reef.”

            “Queen’s…? Speaking it everywhere on Earth, they.”

            “Awoken came from humans, whether admitting to it or not.” Variks laughed, a low, gravelly sound. “Most do not _like_ to admit it.”

            Drasil nodded, thinking briefly of Amanda. For a non-Guardian human she seemed…decent. A brief silence fell as Variks undid his veil, taking his breathing apparatus off and taking a deep breath. Drasil followed suit and undid the ether line in her nose, rubbing at the chafed spot where the clamp always bit into her nostrils. “Better. Thanking again, I.”

            “Not every day guests come to share Variks’ home. Petra has a standing invitation, but…” Variks laughed again. “Always busy. Very hard work, being Queen’s Wrath.” He studied Drasil keenly, teeth clicking in thought. “Tell me. Is what she says true? You look for House Rain?”

            Drasil fidgeted uneasily on her stool. House Judgment scribe or not, Variks was a stranger. Telling him her plans and hopes was very different from talking to Petra or Amanda or Cayde…or even her ghost. His silence was patient but expectant; eventually, she nodded.

            “Yes. Eliksni fled from old stars to this dark place, to follow the Great Machine. Every Eliksni that was able. House Rain was able. Will find it, I.”

            “And do what? What will you do with what you find, if it is there at all?”

            Her insides clenched at the question. The same wondering had plagued her for some time, dogging her every step to the City. _What will I do with it? How will I bring what I find back and not have it stolen or ignored?_

            “Thinking of that part, I. Planning as going.”

            “Interesting plan of action.” Drasil winced at the dry sarcasm in his tone. “Feels like a Guardian plan, yes? Take one step, then another, and hope it works out.”

            “Not a Guardian,” Drasil muttered. “Have never killed anyone, I.”

            “Not yet,” Variks said. Drasil’s gaze swung up and she glared at him. “Sad truth of our lost people, King-daughter. One day you will kill. Will likely kill _many._ Might not be your hand on the wire rifle…might be your word in the ear of one who can command legions. But either way, you will one day be bloodied.”

            His tone had lost the sarcasm. He sounded almost…not sad, Drasil thought. Resigned. Yes, he sounded _resigned._ Nursing the ache of old acceptances, far past wishing he could stand at a crossroads and choose differently.

            “Why caring what a failed dreg does, scribe?”

            “Because I think you are brave,” Variks said. Drasil blinked at him; the words had not been a compliment. “Brave people do bold things. Bold things reshape settled paths and people. Your bravery is like a Guardian’s, King-daughter. Be wary of it. Will lead to glory…or to darkness. To ruin.”

            The room felt too small suddenly. Drasil hooked her ether line back into her nose and stood, bowing deeply. “Thinking on his words, I. Breathe deep and grow strong, House Judgment.”

            She didn’t wait for his answer, but Drasil could feel Variks’ eyes boring into her as she fled his tiny chamber. Her ghost was flitting about over the small pile of supplies Petra had secured for them, turning to her with gentle scolding as she hurried back.

            “There you are! I leave for a moment and you’re off exploring. You shouldn’t poke about here, those House Wolf guards are-” the ghost stopped as it noticed the way Drasil wheezed sharply; she always hyperventilated when she was fighting back anxiety. “Drasil, what happened?”

            “Nothing. Nothing at all. Finished tallying, I. Weapons and ammunitions, food packs. Ready to leave. When do we _leave._ ”

            “Soon. Very soon.” The ghost flitted around her head, trying to catch her eye. “Drasil, you’re pale. Please tell me what happened.”

            Drasil hissed sharply, turning her face away from the ghost. “Listening to foolish things, I. Can do this…can do this.” Her words wavered, and she dashed her hand across her eyes angrily. “Weak, _weak_. Weeping is for children.”

            The ghost whistled, batting her shoulder to push her towards a more isolated corner. Drasil complied, hiding her face behind two hands in growing shame. “Now you _have_ to tell me.”

            “House Judgment has judged _me_ ,” Drasil said, her voice thick. “Sees a scale balanced. Bravery will tip the scale. Glory or ruin. Wanting _neither,_ I! What glory is there in this? Wanted _compassion!_  Light…Light, what is this?”

            The ghost was briefly quiet, shell nodes twisting and twitching as it thought. “It’s the right thing to do. You know it. I know it. Even Cayde-6 is warming to the idea a little.”

            Drasil swiped her sleeve over her eyes, trying to dry them. “House Judgment proclaimed like a Guardian, I. The same bravery.”

            “Oh, that’s certainly nothing to cry over. Guardians are foolhardy, kind and courageous…and _terrible_ dancers.” As it had hoped, Drasil laughed. “The thing with Guardians is, take away their point of origin, the ghosts and the Traveler…they’re people. People are not infallible. And they have the same set of scales Variks sees you bearing. Glory or ruin are the scales anyone who wants to make a big, hard change in the world must carry. You’re very much like a Guardian, Drasil. And inversely…they’re very much like you.”

 Drasil sat down, holding all three hands out; the ghost obligingly hovered between her palms, looking up at her. “Not thinking weak, I am?”

“Never.”

When Petra came to fetch them for final loading and boarding their borrowed ship, Drasil and the ghost followed her with renewed vigor. Variks watched them leave from his isolated corner; Drasil paused and looked over her shoulder at him, raising a hand in farewell. The gesture caught Variks off-guard. He inclined his head and bowed low, and when he straightened again she was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

                “So you’re a historian, huh?”

            Drasil glanced over her shoulder, unable to stop a reflexive wince to find Cayde leaning so close over her. She straightened and turned, setting her food aside and staring up at him.

            “In a way,” she said. “Stories are threads. Together they make a history. Keeping track of King-threads, I.”

            “Poetic.” Cayde sat down across from her, fidgeting with his cloak so it fell properly over his back. Drasil’s body language visibly stiffened as he made himself comfortable. The little cargo hauler Petra had secured for them was sturdy, reliable, and claustrophobic in terms of space. It was outfitted for a crew of three; Cayde, Drasil, Amanda and Petra (who of course had flatly _refused_ to let non-Awoken have free reign of Reef territory) suffered each other’s close proximity mostly without complaint. This, though. Drasil was scenting out a trap, and the ghost at her shoulder was staring narrowly at Cayde.

            Cayde didn’t miss either the Eliksni’s unease nor the ghost’s simmering protectiveness. “Easy, now. I don’t mean nobody harm, Hunter’s honor. Seeing as we’re stuck together we might as well get better acquainted, don’t you think?”

            The ghost was unconvinced. “Shipwright Holliday told you to be polite, didn’t she.”

            There was a long beat of silence. “…she encouraged it, yes.”

            “No.” Drasil shook her head, grabbing her bowl and pushing away from the table. “Not friends, we. No need to force. Helping find House Rain for City’s benefit, killing Light. Anything else is unneeded.”

            “I don’t go into the field without knowing who’s got my back,” Cayde said. His even, cool tone gave Drasil pause. “Look. We’ll make it even, alright? Question for question. You go first, and as long as it ain’t about the City, I’ll answer.”

            “Guardians are nothing _but_ the City,” Drasil said. “All thought, all will. Bent towards protecting it. Protecting the machine-god who sleeps above it. Cannot ask one thing without trespassing on sixth-Cayde’s forbidding rule. Makes conversation…difficult.”

            Cayde blinked at her, then shrugged. “Fine. As long as it’s nothing that’d require security clearance, then. That work better?”

            Drasil and her ghost traded a look. She sat back down, setting her bowl off to the side. “Yes.”

            Silence spiraled between the trio with growing discomfort as Drasil stared firmly at the tabletop, her eyes following the channels of scratches on its aged surface. Like everything else in the Reef it had been salvaged from the graveyard that shrouded it, untold thousands of ships drifting dead and broken. In another life the table had been hull plating for a colony ark; the distinct bronze color was dull with hard use and exposure.

“So…” Cayde drummed his fingers lightly on the table’s edge. “Anything come to mind?”

Drasil looked up at him, squinting. “What do your brothers do? Are they Guardians too?”

“My…brothers?”

“Yes. Sixth-Cayde, you. First-Cayde, Fifth-Cayde. What are they?”

Unexpectedly, Cayde laughed. It was soft and abrupt, but genuine. “There’s no other Cayde in the world. I’m the only one. The ‘six’ means I’ve been…that there were five other iterations of _me._ ”

Drasil looked uneasy with his amusement. “Were erased, they?”

“After a fashion. I’m – look, you know roughly what I am, right?”

“Yes. Like a Servitor. A machine-mind that speaks and walks where it wishes.”

Not the most flattering comparison _,_ Cayde thought. He liked to think he was more intelligent and dashing than a giant, belligerent floating beach ball. Out loud he said, “Yeah, that’s a basic gist. Exos are modeled after humans. But sometimes the brains-” He tapped his forehead, just under the jutting horn, “Don’t quite settle right. So they get reset. Each time an Exo’s reformatted their number chalks up higher.”

“Why resetting, you?”

“Dunno,” Cayde admitted blithely. “Maybe I mouthed off too many times. Maybe I violated Asimov’s rule of robotics. All I know is those versions of me went _fft!_ Disappeared.”

“Cruel,” Drasil said, looking away. After a second Cayde realized there was a note of…no, not pity. Sympathy. She felt _bad_ for him. “Taking stories away from the dead keeps them alive. Taking them from a thing that lives still…very cruel.”

“It made room for the person I am now,” he replied. “If I was still _them_ , I wouldn’t be _me._ Sometimes you gotta lose everything to become more.”

Drasil winced at that. “Have lost everything. Was born into loss, I.”

“Yeah? What was it like growing up with your folks? I’ve…never seen a kid Fall- uh. Eliksni. Just the adults tryin’ to blow my head off.”

“Hard,” Drasil said. “Very hard. Breath is rationed, more strictly than food or water. An Eliksni who breathes freely grows strong. Archons…they are what all good Eliksni desire to be like. Tall, hale. Mighty.”

Her tone suggested otherwise; it was tight, her eyes downcast again. Cayde had seen Archons before and could’t link the rosy idealization with the roaring, raging monsters he’d seen mow down Guardians.

Guardians, _and_ unarmed and screaming civilians. He decided not to mention that.

“Sounds like you’re not too impressed by ‘em,” he ventured. Drasil nodded.

“Archons are what all Eliksni should be by right. Strong and _whole.”_ One hand grasped at her docked arm. “Born with four arms for a _reason,_ we. Docking a tool of control. Pain, a foul motivator. Shame, even more so.”

“Is that why they snip ‘em off? To shame you into obedience?”

“Yes.” Drasil’s hand tightened on the docking cap, knuckles whitening. “Ketches have…” She looked to the ghost, struggling for the word.

“Hierarchy,” it said.

“Hierarchy,” she echoed. “Highest is Archon. Then captains…then vandals. Lowest is dreg. Lowest of all, _failed_ dregs.”

Her tone was bitter, her body language speaking of withdrawal. Cayde tapped his fingers hard on the tabletop to distract her, drawing attention back. “What about before…this? Before there were Fallen?”

“Glories,” Drasil sighed; her ghost gave Cayde an approving look at staving off the bitterness so quickly. “Noble Houses, noble people. Our world was rich and full of strength. No need for mutilation, for struggling through ranks to claw for glory once everywhere, for everyone.”

“We had that too. Long, long time ago.”

“Make it alone, you? Or with the god-machine?”

“The Traveler opened the doorway,” Cayde murmured. “Humanity’s the one walked through to the new kingdom. Built it themselves, yeah. But they had the Traveler giving them a hoist up.”

Drasil was very quiet for a moment. “…Eliksni, they believe the machine-god is our Great Machine. Unsure, I.”

“Come again?”

“Legends and myths of the machine-god, they reach everywhere. Eliksni story-collectors study and learn. Hive speaks of it in hateful whispers, yearning to unmake it. Cabal…asset of war, they think. Weapon to turn on enemies.” She paused, drawing her bowl back and picking at the grainy, thick stuff inside. “Unsure what Vex think. Keeping counsel quiet, they.”

“But your people think it’s your god?” The idea was not a revelation to Cayde, but it never failed to make him uneasy. Drasil nodded slowly.

“Most do. The Whirlwind swept through our empire. All that was good, taken away. All that was left, desperation and rage, chasing what was. The Great Machine was taken away. When Eliksni left home to pursue…so much knowledge lost. Long, long centuries of hunting. Time is a warped mirror…things that were known, turned to echoes and shades. A thing known now is not as it was known then. What we think is the Great Machine...may not be.”

“Huh. That's enough to keep a guy awake at night, ain't it?"

"Yes. Awake, and fearful."

"Well...we might not have the god problem y'all have. But we do have issues keeping our story-threads straight,” Cayde admitted. “Golden Age tech is…beyond us. Hasn’t been a new Exo made in centuries, not since before the Collapse. And don’t even get me _started_ on Warminds. Might as well be cousins of the Traveler for how much we understand how they work.”

“Not understanding the machine-god, you?” Drasil looked surprised. “Guardians born of its Lights. Thought they _were_ the machine-god.”

“What, like its puppets?” Cayde shuddered, repulsion at the thought unfeigned. “God, no. _Hell_ no. We’re ourselves.”

“How knowing, you?”

The conversation was quickly losing its luster again, and Cayde wasn’t sure he wanted to direct it back on track. Drasil’s eyes bored into him as he avoided the question, taking out a hunting knife and polishing it with the hem of his cloak. A nervous habit, unthreatening – and yet Drasil still drew back from him in reflexive fright.

“I just _know,_ okay?” He went still as he heard Drasil’s breath whistle thinly, realizing the source of her restrained fear. He looked up at her and then down at his knife, shoving it back home in its sheath. “I just know. I am myself. The ones that made me took away five different versions of me. The Traveler didn’t usurp the sixth.”

“Single-minded,” she said. “Killing Lights.”

“We don’t have a choice.”

“What if there was?”

“We’d rebuild,” he said. “Every world the Darkness took from us, we’d build up again. The Traveler made dead worlds live for us. All we want is to take back what was taken away.”

Drasil leaned back in her chair, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. “The machine-god. The Traveler. If it had not died here….not coming to take all away, we. Vex, Cabal. Hive. Eliksni. All come for the corpse of a glory. The ones it loved so much suffer for it.”

It was the closest thing to an apology Cayde had ever heard, from an enemy or in general. A Vanguard was not supposed to see things in shades of grey, nor were they supposed to let their faith in the Traveler show any cracks. The Vanguard was absolute – the right hand of the Speaker, who in turn was right hand to…a giant, dormant orb in the sky. It had loved humanity, sure. But Drasil was right. They’d suffered unduly for that love, in the end. The Traveler had died for them, and they were dying every day a little more for what it had left behind.

Cayde let the thoughts cross his mind and then firmly put them away. Drasil was right. It was a truth, but not the whole truth. “One day it’ll come back to us. It’s out of commission right now…but one day, it’ll come back. Not gonna be a magic fix to what’s been broken. Fool’s hope to think centuries of struggle can be wiped away in an instant. But we fight to keep what it helped us gain, and one day we’ll make it whole again.”

“What if the Whirlwind comes back?” She looked at him earnestly. “What if it takes more? What if it offers another path to become whole?”

“Devil’s deal,” Cayde said. “Not in a million goddamned years. We’ve lost Guardians to that kind of stuff before…the things they become with wishes and bargains, they ain’t natural. We do it the honest way or not at all.”

Drasil stared hard at him, and Cayde saw a brightness dawn in her expression he’d never seen on a Fallen before. Her ghost nudged her shoulder, murmuring something Cayde thought sounded like “ _Didn’t I tell you?”_

Abruptly, Drasil stuck a hand out. “Understanding each other, we. Understanding each other very much.”

Cayde took her hand. She didn’t shake it, but instead adjusted her grip to grasp his wrist. He wrapped his hand around hers without so strong a grasp; he could easily break her bones, and wouldn’t _that_ be a damper on the moment.

“Maybe so,” he said. She nodded hard, giving his wrist a squeeze before releasing him. “Maybe so.”

 


End file.
